Errant in France
My childhood summer holidays were dominated by long stifling drives imprisoned in hot cars around the camping and caravanning sites of the Var and the Cote d’Azur in the 1960s and 1970s.
The only diversions I had from the back of the car on the way down from Calais were inventing games similar to I-spy but with far less point to them, and noting and memorising French car designs, which were then distinctive and unusual, such as the 2CV, the Citroen DS, and the Renault 16.
I got accustomed to picnics in crowded and littered lay-byes, eating out of tins and from paper plates, and in the evenings swimming in dark musky lakes, clouds of mosquitos at head height, and thousands of flies and wasps. Peaches and melons came in trays and giant beef tomatoes came in clustered branches.
These all became more frequent experiences as we edged south down the motorways and national routes. I observed Montelimar nougat-designed mileposts flying by from the back of the car. Even now I get hot flushbacks at the mere mention of places such as Frejus, Grimaud, Aix-en-Provence, Draguignan, La Garde-Freinet.
Fifty-five years on, I again found myself stop-starting along the bumperway and associated roads with an overheated engine, this time with frequent pit-stops for my ever-panting dog and solemn warnings about slow traffic from the French radio, on the way to a village just north of Toulon.
Following impeccable instructions I found my destination, a huge but simple house of grace and style in a natural hollowed valley bounded on each side by tidy clipped vines, reminding me of a tidy beard.
The manoir, as I felt it must be, was also surrounded by olive trees, a large potager, fine stone terracing, compelling modern and classical sculptures, a paved alignment between immaculate hedges, a swimming pool, a modern courtyard, an English bowling lawn, and a few far-off pieces of earth-moving equipment, as well as some scattered blond and beautiful children running about shouting.
My dog immediately took the role of guardian of the terrace wall and started the rather short process of endearing herself to her initially sceptical hosts, despite trotting blatantly into the huge but forbidden kitchen whenever she pleased.
The details of that evening seemed clear at the time but were forgotten by the next morning. They largely consisted of a confusing visit to nearby neighbours and dinner with the village mayoress in a perfumed garden.
I woke in a large room with cream sheets and an open window through which early morning sunshine poured like honey.
I then sat out on the terrace with a noisette and a croissant, taking note of the early morning buzz of heat, and the nearby sounds of pétanque and French swear words, which when translated, seemed unreasonable in the circumstances.
For lunch my host and I carefully prised vegetables from the pesticide-free potager and took them to a nearby restaurant which had opened especially to prepare and cook them for us in an apotheosis of style and elegance. Of course.
After beating the bounds in a large circular walk through the hidden valley among the vines, for dinner we went into the village with a crowd of people following a chaotic cocktail party. We sat on long benches in the heart of the village under heavily cropped plane trees while locals abused each other jauntily over our heads. Afterwards we sat gazing upwards to watch the studded sky and the occasional shooting star.
The different environment and rhythm, and especially the stark and obvious contrast with my memories of the same region nearly fifty years previously, served to revive my spirit, lifting me well beyond the mundane. It gave me hope. I warmed and healed with the gift of recent memory and friends revisited. My childhood summer holiday memories never needed to be deleted. But thanks to these days, they have been supplemented by newer discoveries and the everlasting benefits of interaction.